


learn to love what burns

by theragingstorm



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Brief Torture, Canon Compliant, Child Soldiers, F/M, Friendship, Gap Filler, Gen, Memory Issues, Mentions of Non-Consensual Sterilization, Mentions of Steve Rogers - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Multi, Plothole Fill, Red Room, Romance, This Author Knows Nothing About Ballet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7317322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theragingstorm/pseuds/theragingstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier was supposed to be Hydra's killing machine. Not a friend, not a lover, not a brother; barely a human being.</p><p>The girl assassins of the Red Room were supposed to be much the same.</p><p>But for just a moment, they all found that they could be more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	learn to love what burns

**Author's Note:**

> MCU fusion with 616 canon with a lot of angst, a little bit of romance, a little bit of sibling relationships, and a lot of memory loss that explores the Winter Soldier’s relationship with the young Black Widows? In retrospect, it’s no surprise this took me over three months to finish.
> 
> But since nobody, especially not Kevin Feige, wanted to explore what happened during MCU Bucky Barnes’ time as the Winter Soldier or Natasha Romanoff’s time in the Red Room, I had to do it myself. 
> 
> (Russian translations at the end)

Before the Asset even arrived at the Red Room, the Black Widows already hated him.

Maybe it was to be expected. Every single one of those girls had been trained to cut off all ties to the outside world and turn themselves into living weapons. They held a strong suspicion of all things that had not come from their Master, and focused only on their training and their missions.

When he’d arrived, they’d been able to form three lines of young girls in ballerina costumes. At the time, the oldest seemed to be about nineteen; the youngest about four. All of them had been born in Russia or various other parts of the former USSR. At times, they seemed like a machine composed of pale faces, dark hair, and long limbs that moved far too gracefully for their ages.

Unfortunately, a strong sense of pride accompanied them as well; considering that they were, even without finishing their training, the best young killers in all of Russia. And they knew it.

_Running through the alleys, stomping through puddles, making up stories with little wooden toys, laughing and swatting out as she shouted “Bucky, you filthy cheater…”_

(Where had that thought come from? It was not relevant. Do not think about it any longer.)

At any rate, the Asset was beginning to fear that he would not accomplish his mission.

(He will be angry at me. Delete, delete. Wipe him and start over.)

“No, no, no!” one of the girls finally snapped. “You’re doing the form wrong!  You can’t stick your foot out too much; Madame says it makes you look like a duck. Whatever  _that_  is.”

“Why must we even do this?” he asked, exasperated. “It serves no practical purpose. You are weapons, not dancers.”

“ _Know_  that, stupid,” scoffed another girl who couldn’t be more than five. “This makes us stronger. Tough. Builds up muscle so we can spin and punch and not get hurt.”

“Why does it matter whether you hurt yourselves or not?”

“Because some of us would  _prefer_  to live to kill another day.”

The speaker appeared to be about eighteen. She was short and lithe, her auburn hair tied back and her green eyes sparking with irritation. She was the strongest and the most skilled, the one who’d killed the most of her compatriots, the one sent out on the most missions, the one his handlers liked to stare at when she wasn’t looking, the one Madam B had claimed had “the most potential.”

She was Asset 6013.

“It doesn’t matter; my master takes care of me. It doesn’t matter whether I get hurt or not; as long as I am doing what Hydra needs done.”

Asset 6013 gave him a long look of bored disgust. 

_She thinks you’re an idiot._

_“Nice going Buck; now she thinks you’re an idiot.”_

_“Not for long.”_

“If you say so.” Her flat tone was laced with sarcasm.

(He was right. How could what he was told not be right?)

“I do.”

“Fine. Now let’s do the form and actually move on to training today.”

The Asset stared at 6013. How impudent she was.

“Who is supposed to be the teacher here, child?”

She gave him a look of even deeper disgust.

A different girl proceeded to stomp on his foot as she danced past, and he suspected it wasn’t an accident.

This mission was already a failure.

 

* * *

 

“ _Soldat_ , you know what happens if you fail a mission.”

“ _Soldat_ , your track record is perfect. Why lose everything over a bunch of little girls?”

“ _Soldat_ , tell Asset 6013 that she can practice her seduction skills on me whenever her teacher wants.”

“Yuri, don’t be disgusting.”

“ _Soldat_ , if you quit this mission, I will put a bullet in your head, and then another in mine. Better to die than risk Pierce’s wrath; you know that.”

(They were right. Well, not Yuri. But he could not quit. Maybe he would have more success tomorrow.)

(He had been telling himself that every day for the last month.)

 

* * *

 

“Focus,” he growled to a chubby blond seven-year-old struggling to strip an assault rifle under his time limit. “If you can’t work under pressure, you might as well let her–” He pointed at another; a skinny creature of about eleven with cold gray eyes “–snap your neck right now.”

“Maybe,” she mumbled, “I would be able to work better if you didn’t keep breathing down my neck,  _Zhemniy Soldat_. Or maybe it should be  _Zalupa Soldat_.”

Someone else snickered. It sounded like 6013.

“Watch your fucking language, 6145.”

She glared at him.

“First of all stupid, it’s 6146. Second, that’s not my name. My name is Marina.”

The Asset blinked a few times, staring at the child.

She stared back at him; mostly petulant, but with something else in her eyes that he couldn’t figure out.

“Well, which would you rather I call you? 6146, or Marina? I literally couldn’t care less.”

“And I  _literally_  just told you, stupid.” She went back to disassembling the Kalashnikov, small hands flying over the weapon while he grumbled under his breath at her disrespect.

 

* * *

 

“Hey  _Soldat_. It’s for you.”

He took the phone, hands trembling. 

“Hello, little soldier.”

Pierce’s voice. His master.

“It’s been more than a month. Mission report.”

Any little bit of calm he’d had immediately flew away. The Asset took in big gulps of air, trying to steady himself.

“Mission has…complications. Subjects are resisting my teaching. They seem to…dislike me.”

“They  _dislike_  you?” Pierce sounded disappointed, which was far, far worse than him being angry. “That’s the reason why you haven’t gotten anywhere with your mission?”

“I…think that they resent me, sir.”

“Now, now, little soldier.” His master’s voice was soothing. “You know I hate to do this, but I can’t allow any faults in my weapon’s system. If you have not gained those girls’ trust by the end of this month, then I’m afraid we’ll have to bring you back and…scold you. Hydra will greatly profit if we have ties to Red Room assassins, and I would  _hate_  for you to be the reason that we can’t do that.”

He took another breath, deep and shuddering.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry. Complete your mission.”

The line went dead.

 

* * *

 

“Again!” he snarled.

“Why are you putting us through the obstacle course  _again?_ ” snapped the girl with cold gray eyes; Asset 6022. “You’ve been here for six weeks, and all you do is teach us the same useless things we already know. Where are the skills that the fearsome Winter Soldier is supposed to have?”

He stalked up to her and glared.

“How can you still be so disrespectful?”

“Because you’re treating us like you’re our master!” she shouted. “We have no master. Black Widows belong to ourselves and ourselves alone! If orders are arbitrary, we have no reason to follow them.”

“Is that what Madame B told you?” he replied scornfully. “What do you think  _she_  is, you little brat?”

For a moment, 6022 was lost for words.

Then she kicked him viciously in the shin.  

The obstacle course was set outside, and ran uphill though mud and over rocks. In order to keep their footing, each of the girls was wearing thick, heavy boots with metal soles and tips. 

Getting kicked with that was like getting hit with a ten-pound steel hammer.

There was a sharp crunch as her boot hit the sensitive bone, and he bent over, gasping. 

(Subject damaged. Skin most likely broken. Bone possibly cracked.)

“Irina!” shrieked one of the older girls. “ _What_  have you  _done?_ ”

“Leave it,” 6013 said coldly. “It’s not our problem if he kills her.”

The Asset stood, attempting to put weight on his damaged leg. It hurt, but not with the screeching burn of a broken bone. Probably mostly bruising, definitely some blood. 

6022 – Irina – stared back at him. She was still glowering, but for the first time, he noticed a bit of fear in her eyes. It was the first non-aggressive emotion he’d seen her express; and he suspected that her master would want her shot for it.

Instead, the Asset stood up as best he could with his injured leg and glowered at her instead.

“You’ll be running extra laps when we get back and carrying all my weapons on the way there. Maybe you’ll build up some muscle that way.”

Even as she arrogantly tossed her head back, he could see her shoulders involuntarily slump with relief. The others all stared at him for a few long moments before they went back to running.

The Asset rested his weight on his good leg and watched them.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, when the others were filing off to dinner, he noticed that 6013 had stayed behind. She leaned against the barre, still in her leotard and dancing shoes; watching him.

“You’re going to be late for dinner, 6013.”

“Why didn’t you kill Irina?”

Her bluntness took him aback, and it took him a moment to respond. Her intense green eyes seemed to bore into his own.

“It didn’t seem worth it to kill her over something that small.”

“I once saw another girl shot because she tripped while holding a gun, and another because she talked out of turn. We normally behave around here.”

“Made an exception for me? You thought I would be a soft teacher?”

She wrinkled her nose.

“We all know full well that Hydra is all talk and no action. And you proved us even more right than we could’ve guessed. Offense fully intended, by the way.”

“Offense taken.” He paused. “But you’re wrong about Hydra. We, unlike you, just prefer to wait for the right moment instead of acting immediately.”

“Right moments take lifetimes to come around,  _Soldat_. Not everyone has an inhumanly long time to wait for what they want.”

_“If I wait for a ‘right moment’ Buck, I’ll be old and gray by the time I do anything.”_

_“You’re going to get your ass kicked, you know.”_

_“Nah. You’ll just swoop in and save me like you always do.”_

“But if you did have an opportunity to wait…what would you do?”

There was a long silence.

“I’m just a weapon,  _Soldat_. And so are you. Neither of us has opportunities.”

(She’s right.)

“That’s not what I meant." 

"I know what you meant.” She pushed herself off the barre with practiced ease. “I’m going to go eat. And your handlers will be looking for you to give you your supplements, so I’d leave too if I were you.”

She left. 

For the first time, he wondered what her name was.

 

* * *

 

Madame B stared at him over her cup of tea and vodka the way a vulture might watch a dying mouse.

“They do not have names,  _Soldat_. None that matter, anyway. They do not need any ties or attachments to the outside world, whether voluntary or not. They may adopt pseudonyms while on missions, but that’s all. If they choose to keep their names, then they have gone against our teachings and cannot be true Black Widows.”

“I understand, ma'am.” He sat up straighter in his seat.

“Good.” She set down her tea. “So you understand that neither may you ask me again for 6013’s birth name, nor may you ask her for it. Are we clear?”

“Assassins may not have names. I understand.”

“Good. You may go back to your mission.”

(Has the subject been out of cryofreeze too long? Subject is starting to think clearly for the first time in decades. Subject may be prone to disobedience…)

 

* * *

 

“How many more times are we going to have to practice these knots?” one eight-year-old asked. 

“When you can do it so that Nadya can’t escape from them.”

“I’m Tatiana,” grumbled the bored teenager who’d been tied to a chair for the last two hours. 

“ _I’m_  Nadya,” added a different girl of about twelve. “Well, I’m supposed to be 6189, but I’m pretty sure my name’s Nadya.”

The Asset sighed.

“Fine. So make sure Anya doesn’t get away–”

“Tatiana!”

“ _I’m_  Anya.”

The Asset rubbed his temple.

“Forgive me,” he said flatly. “Your names all sound the same.”

“Like you can talk,” Tatiana snapped. “You don’t even  _have_  one.”

_“What is the one thing that everything has?”_

_“A name?”_

_“That’s right.”_

“I don’t need a name. And by the way, Tatiana, you might want to try pressing your wrist against the weak spot in the knot…here.” He touched his finger to the knot. “You got the others right, but you didn’t know this one always gives in if you give it a little pressure in the right place.”

She gave an experimental pull, and the ropes fell off her.

“Finally, he’s good for something.”

 

* * *

 

A stocky eight-year-old with long brown hair walked out onto the shooting range with the Asset. 6013 sauntered along behind them, keeping her gaze on him.

“Your training doesn’t start for another hour.”

“You know that’s not why I’m here.” She leaned against the wall and started polishing a small handgun; easy to slip under a dress or into a purse. 

Keeping one ear tuned to the steady squeak of rags against metal, he turned to the child with the rifle.

“Valentina, is it?”

She nodded.

“Alright Valentina. The targets have already been set up. I want you to hit all of them in the center. Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Can you do it when they’re moving?”

He strode over to the control panel in the wall, and tapped some of the buttons.   
The targets were propped up on mechanical wheels, programmed to move around the shooting range randomly. As soon as he pressed the last button, all twenty-odd targets growled to life and began zigzagging across the floor.

Valentina raised the rifle and popped off the safety with uncanny ease. She held it up to her eye…

“Wait.”

She looked up at him. Across the room, the squeaking noises stopped.

“You…your hair’s in the way. You won’t be able to shoot properly if you can’t see.”

Suddenly feeling awkward, he reached out his flesh hand to her loose hair…before hesitating.

Valentina shrugged.

“Go ahead.”

Emboldened, the Asset gathered up two handfuls of hair and began to braid; careful not to snag any in the plates of his hand. Within a minute, the young girl had two neatly braided pigtails falling across her shoulders.

He took a step back. She glanced down at the hair, then looked up at him.  
Unexpectedly, she broke into a gap-toothed smile.

“ _Spaciba_.”

Still smiling, she lifted the rifle again and released a load of bullets into the heart of the nearest target.  

The Asset stifled the urge to smile himself, and turned to look at 6013.

She tilted her head to one side, before raising an eyebrow at him in oddly familiar way…were teenagers supposed to do that?

Well anyway, for her, it was almost friendly.

 

* * *

 

He heard them talking while they injected his supplements. He was supposed to be asleep for the process; no screaming or flinching allowed. That day, he’d decided to lightly rest instead.

“The Asset might be malfunctioning.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Did you see the security footage of him braiding Asset 6071’s hair? What if he’s starting to remember empathy?”

“Calm down Ilya; that was only for practical purposes.”

“He called 6071 by a name. A  _name_. None of them are supposed to have names.”

“We’re supposed to have another month to finish the mission. We’ll only be here for another few weeks, then we can go home, wipe him, and stick him back in cryo. Everything will be fine.”

The Asset squeezed his eyes a little tighter shut.

 

* * *

 

That night, when he was helping the girls strap themselves down to their beds, he lingered in the room that Olga and 6013 shared.

“The new handcuffs are chafing,” Olga explained. “I told 13 that it would be more practical to have something that won’t hurt our wrists, so we can still use them tomorrow. She thinks I’m being soft. Can you convince her?”

“I  _am_  sitting right here, Olga,” 6013 reminded the other teenager. “You don’t need to use the  _Soldat_  as a messenger pigeon.”

“You’re just being stubborn.”

“No, I just want to strap myself to the bed and sleep; like a normal person. Which I would have done by now on my own.”

“And  _I’m_  just mad that I was summoned here to babysit when I thought I would be training killers,” the Asset interjected.

“ _Sosat khuy_.”

“I would, but there are none here to suck. And I  _am_  taking my handlers into account.”

Olga broke into sniggers, and even 6013 looked like she was trying not to smile.  

“Look,” he said. “If the handcuffs you sleep in are chafing, just line them with some cloth. I won’t tell Madame B. But I’m not going to change the ones we work with, understand?”

Olga nodded. 6013’s brief mirth had faded away, and she was back to being unreadable. 

“Good.”

He turned, and headed back to his own sleeping area; where his handlers were waiting. Not everyone got to strap themselves to their own beds. Those girls didn’t know how lucky they were.

 

* * *

 

When his back was turned, he heard whispers.

“He didn’t kill one of the assets after she deliberately injured him.”

“He checks to make sure they are not severely hurt after training sessions.”

“He braids hair.”

“He bandages the surviving asset’s wounds after duels.”

“I’m sure he’s the reason their wrists are no longer bruised in the mornings.”

“Our Asset is malfunctioning.”

“Two more weeks, men. Only two more weeks, and then he’ll be locked away where he belongs.”

(They are not my master. They do not determine whether the subject is malfunctioning or not.)

(Subject does not believe it is malfunctioning.)

(Subject cannot tell the difference; what does a machine know?)

“We’re lucky we at least get to put him away now; when he’s obedient. Remember that time, years ago, when he screamed for someone to save him?”

“I’ll never let them take you again, Buck. I promise you’ll be safe as long as I live.”

“Didn’t they punish him for that?”

“Of course. Nobody cares about nameless weapons; much less bother to save them.”

 

* * *

 

The Asset thought he might have finally managed to get that one ballet form right.

“Oh look. He doesn’t look  _entirely_  like a crippled goose.”

_Close enough._

“Thanks, Irina,” he replied dryly, settling back into rest position. 

(Subject cannot relax. Must remain on alert for targets or enemies at all times.)

“Ignore her,  _Soldat_ ,” Sofie interrupted, rolling her eyes. “She’s just mad that she can’t hit a target’s bullseye blindfolded yet, and she’s been here for years.”

Irina punched the older girl in the ribs with an unpleasant  _crack_. Sofie did nothing more than grimace and glare downwards.

“She can’t?” The Asset turned his gaze to the eleven-year-old. “Then we’ll improve on that next, after 6013 and I finish practicing interrogation. I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”

6013 stepped out of her place in line and followed him out of the ballet studio. 

The interrogation room was, at times, actually used for interrogations, Madame B had told him when he’d first arrived. Anyone who unexpectedly rebelled, the odd American spy who managed to sneak in, or trainers who did anything but their job. Usually though, the girls practiced in it for the inevitable day when they would need to worm information out of an unsuspecting mark. Nobody had died in it…at least not recently. There was, however, a small stain on one of the chairs that he’d been assured was certainly not brain fluid.

6013 casually tied herself to the chair that certainly did not have brain fluid on it. Right after a quick inspection, he sat in the one adjacent to her.

“Well, this is comfy,” she quipped.

The straight-backed chairs were made of hardwood, and he was fairly certain that his was starting to splinter. They were the only pieces of furniture in the Red Room that weren’t dripping in fake opulence. 

“Soldat? Are you going to pretend to be my mark and start ogling me, or are you going to ogle the wall all day instead?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my student, and I’m your trainer. Besides, you’re what…fourteen?”

For a moment, it looked like she was going to make a cutting remark. Then something drifted across her face, and for a moment she looked almost…lost.

“I  _think_  I’m eighteen…but it’s a little hard to keep track of time here. After my surgery a few years ago, nobody bothered to tell me my age.”

_Cold…_

_Years passed, and he didn’t even notice._

She shook her head in disgust.

“But what does it matter? You probably don’t even know your age at this point.”

“I don’t,” he said honestly. “And you’re right, it probably doesn’t. As long as I don’t get arthritis and can still shoot, and as long as you’re able to butter up marks.”

She nodded dutifully, then a spark of mirth entered her eyes.

“Right, because either way you’re too ugly to butter up marks. You might not even need to shoot them; all you have to do is take off your mask and they’ll die of fright.”

For a moment, the Asset was too astonished to say anything. 

Then he sat up a little straighter in his chair.

“Actually, on undercover missions I’ve been told that I’m very conventionally attractive.”

“I’m sure they want you to believe that,” she replied casually.

He snorted.

“What about you? That ponytail you wear all the time is awfully out-of-style.”

“Oh, is that the  _only_  criticism you have of my appearance?”

He honestly had no response to that. She was young, and…also conventionally attractive; with her red curls, large green eyes, soft lips, and toned body. True, her nose was slightly too long for her face, but for some reason that only added to her appeal.

Wait, since when did she have  _appeal?_

And since when did they actually talk semi-civilly to each other?

“Just do the exercise, 6013.”

The corner of her lip twitched. 

“I will when you start talking.”

He resisted the urge to smile. He hadn’t in so long, it would only hurt his cheek muscles.

 

* * *

 

Anya and Sofie – fourteen and fifteen respectively, both tall and lithe –took their places opposite each other in the ring.

They were easily distinguishable, despite their similar build. Anya had curly black hair that she always kept tied in a plait, watery blue eyes, and moon-pale skin.  Sofie had straight, dirty-blond hair cut in a neat bob, brown eyes, and a smear of freckles across her nose like spots on a mushroom.

Both were completely still at their positions. They were dressed in the same leotards they used for dancing, and barefoot. They were not allowed to be armed. 

“Watch,  _Soldat_ ,” Madame B commanded the Asset. “I want you to see if your training has paid off since the last duel.”

“You’re not allowed to give him orders, woman–” one of his handlers tried to say, but she cut him off with an icy look. His mouth flopped closed.

The Asset turned his gaze to the young girls. They were just as still as they’d been taught…except that Anya’s lips were pressed just too tightly together, and she was blinking too often. Sofie’s shoulders were as taut as wire. 

He silently willed the girls to relax. Even though one of them had to die, they could not show any fear.

“ _Nachat!_ ”

Silent and fluid, they circled each other. Almost instantly, Sofie shifted forward into an offensive position, and Anya slid backwards into defense. 

For just a moment, they were still; sizing each other up.

Then quick as thought, Sofie hit the floor and slid; knocking Anya to her knees. Another quick, brutal jab to the other girl’s ribs; then a kick to the head that sent Anya sprawling and everyone else gasping in anticipation.

But then Anya was up again. She swung her fist, and Sofie’s head was jerked painfully to the side. She swung again–

And Sofie caught it. She twisted, flipping Anya backwards and against the floor with a crack.

Every eye remained trained on them.

As Sofie advanced, Anya remained still until the other girl was inches away–

And then kicked her in the chest.

Someone groaned in sympathy. The Asset was startled to realize that it was him.

But Sofie turned the fall into a backflip and landed as gracefully as a cat. In the next instant, she launched forward; her feet and hands both catching Anya in the face with a horrible  _crunch_  and  _squelch_.

Anya let out a soft wail. Blood spurted from her nose and mouth; both broken. But worse, her eyes–

Her eyes had been raked into bloodied jelly. 

The Asset numbly realized that they must have been crushed under Sofie’s fingernails.

As the other girl blinked blood from her ruined eyes, Sofie struck out again, catching her right against her broken face. Anya stumbled back once more, and Sofie saw her opportunity. Her hands wrapped around the other girl’s throat, and broke it with a  _snap_.

Anya was dead before she hit the floor.

All this had happened in less than two minutes.

The Asset let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

Her hands and feet messy with blood, Sofie tucked some flyaway hair behind her ears and stood at attention. Faint trails of red clung to wisps of brown-blond.

Madame B’s voice rang out, clear and cold.   

“You won the fight in record time, Asset 6131. Your lunge was still sloppy, but that’s always been a weakness of yours. Otherwise…your strikes were strong, your method vastly improved.”

She turned her vulture gaze to the Asset. He kept his face impassive.

“It seems like you have even more to offer the Black Widows than even I anticipated. I will have to call Pierce and ask him to keep you longer than we planned.”

The girls’ heads all whipped toward him in unison.

His handlers’ mouths fell open in shock.

The Asset felt a strange sensation sweep over him. He had no name for it, but it felt as though tension was washing out of his body. Which was absurd. What reason did he have to carry around tension? 

She raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not even going to ask how long you’ll be here?”

“I have no cause to ask questions.”

She nodded, a thin smile twisting across her lips.

“Exactly.”

He could almost feel all the girls’ gazes on him.

 

* * *

 

Even before he looked up, he knew the footsteps were 6013’s.

“This had better be important,” he said without turning around. “Valentina’s working on her routine, and it needs to be perfect.”

Valentina, who was still resting her hand against the barre, nodded in agreement.

“Important? You mean, absolutely vital? You mean, far more urgent than Valentina’s one single routine?  _That_ important?”

The Asset did his best not to sigh.

“Yes, I mean  _that_  important.”

“Well, I’m not certain if it’s  _that_  important, but I’ll have you know that Irina stole the practice ropes, and Olga and Tatiana are playing some kind of skipping game with them.”

His head snapped around. 6013’s face was the picture of innocence, but he knew she was anything but.

“They know that they can’t waste their practice time with frivolities. They’ll be punished.”

She shrugged.

“Only if you turn them in.”

He gritted his teeth, then turned back to Valentina. Her gaze was still trained on him, brown eyes stretched wide with concern. 

“Keep practicing. I will return in a few minutes.”

He turned on his heel and ran through the door. 

In the room next door, where they were supposed to be patiently waiting for their own practice sessions, the girls were playing with the ropes. Tatiana and Olga held the ends of two ropes in their hands, and twirled each in circles as the younger girls took turns jumping over them.

Some were already breathless and red-faced, strands of hair falling out of their formerly neat ballerina buns. A few were still in line, eagerly awaiting their turn.

“There’s no way you’ll be able to do more than me,” Irina scoffed, tucking thick coils of black hair back into place. 

Nadya only smiled boldly.

“I doubt it. In fact, if I can’t make it over the ropes more times than you without tripping, I’ll run an extra mile outdoors tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Irina scoffed. “But it’s  _not_  going to happen. It’s just not.  _I’ll_  run the extra mile tomorrow if you can do it.”

“Deal.”

Nadya prepared to jump.

The Asset loudly cleared his throat.

All the girls froze. Slowly, their heads rotated until they were all making eye contact with him. 

Different expressions played out on their faces. Some (Tatiana, Nadya) looked afraid. Some (Irina, Katya, Marina) looked defiant. Some (Olga, Sofie) looked ashamed. 

“We apologize,  _Soldat_ ,” Sofie murmured. “We shouldn’t have been playing when we were supposed to be waiting for you–”

“Did 6013 tell you what we were doing?” Marina snapped. “She had no right to do that. We were just having fun–”

“Don’t listen to her, we weren’t going to do this much longer–” Nadya began.

_“Come on! Play jump-rope with us!”_

_“Miriam, hold still!”_

_“Becca, hold the ropes.”_

_“Why do I have to hold the ropes? Make Leah hold the ropes.”_

_“Cripes, you guys;_ I’ll _hold the ropes.”_

_“I guess you could say you have your sisters ‘on the ropes.’”_

_“Shut up, ya punk.”_

The Asset interrupted her.

“Olga, you’re holding those wrong.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What?”

He stepped closer to her, and bent down. His metal fingers wrapped around her wrist, and gently re-angled it. 

“You’ll be able to turn them with more ease if you hold them like that instead.”

She was still, blinking up at him in surprise. After a long beat, she asked:

“You’re not going to turn us in for being frivolous?”

“It’s not frivolity. You can actually become quite agile, learning to dodge two ropes moving like that.”

“How do you know?”

He opened his mouth to respond…then closed it again.

“I don’t know how I know.”

The girls gave him more inquisitive looks. Marina looked like she was about to ask something, then Nadya slapped a hand over the younger girl’s mouth. 

The Asset cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I’ll…let you continue, while I finish Valentina’s session.”

“Yes,  _Soldat_.”

As he walked back into the studio, the first thing he noticed was that Valentina had moved to the other side of the room. The second thing he noticed was that 6013 was still there. She was facing away from him; her gaze on the mirror.

“Why would you do that?” he snapped. “I know that you’re ruthless, and that you probably don’t care about the others; considering how many you’ve killed by now. But you never do anything without a reason. Why did you try to get them punished over something completely harmless?”

6013 turned to face him. She was wearing a very familiar expression:

_You are so stupid._

“It was a  _test_ ,” he realized out loud. “You were  _testing_  me.”

“You’ve been here for six months now, Soldat,” she replied. “That’s a long time to potentially form attachments.”

His hands – both flesh and metal – clenched into fists.

“Why do you care?”

The next look she gave him was…pitying?

“Because attachments are a weakness, and will only get you killed. Love is for children.”

“You  _are_  children.”

To his surprise, she seemed to visibly deflate at his words. Her shoulders curved in on themselves, and a dull sheen entered her eyes.

“No. We’re many things; but in this place, none of us were allowed to be children anymore.”

It was surprisingly honest, especially coming from 6013. For once, the Asset had no response to her.

He was startled out of his silence when Valentina tugged at the bottom of his flak jacket.

“ _Soldat_ , are we going to finish my routine today?”

“Yes, of course.”

He turned away, ignoring the older girl’s green gaze prickling against his skin, and finally let Valentina complete her routine.

 

* * *

 

Karpov – the head of his handlers – called all the way from back home in Siberia. 

“What do you mean the Asset is failing?”

“Sir, it’s been eight months since he got here–”

“And he has failed to deliver on our promise?”

“No sir, it’s not that. He’s training them well, but…”

“But what?” Karpov’s voice grew sharp.

The Asset squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and stilled his limbs inside the restraints. If they kept thinking he was asleep, he might know whether he was about to be punished or not.

“But he seems to…care about them.”

Karpov’s laugh reminded the Asset of a rusty engine starting.

“That’s ridiculous! Caring about someone….treating them like people…he’s operating under his programming code! He’s nothing but a gun to be pointed; you know that.”

“But what if it wore off? Or what if one of his injuries snapped him out of it–”

“Don’t what-if me. He’s a killer, a weapon. Even if the code did wear off, his brain is still incoherent jelly. More importantly, if Pierce and that woman want him there, you keep him there. Understood?”

There was a muffled chorus of mumbled approval from the handlers.

“Good.  _Dosvidanya_.”

The Asset relaxed into his restraints.

 

* * *

 

Katya squirmed uncomfortably as he helped her handcuff herself to the bed. On the adjacent bunk, Marina had already fallen asleep.

“There, now they won’t dig into your wrists. Will you be able to sleep better now?”

“Maybe.” She tested the cuffs. “No thanks to you.”

He might’ve smiled.

“Well, goodnight then.”

He turned to go.

“Hey, uh… _Soldat_.”

He paused.

“Is there anything else you need to fall asleep?”

“Yes, um…this is going to sound ridiculous…but then again you let us skip ropes so maybe not so much…”

He waited.

“Will you…talk to me for a while? Tell me a story?”

The Asset looked at her, and, not for the first time, was struck by how young she was. Ten at the most, and the most delicate-featured of the girls; with bones like a bird’s and blue eyes almost as big as Marina’s.

“I mean,” she added quickly, “your voice is so boring it’s bound to send me right off.”

“Of course it is.”

The Asset walked back over and sat down beside her bunk. 

(Error. Stories. Don’t have any stories. Not any ones that aren’t about blood and death and killing and serving my duty–)

_“Tell us a story, Bucky.”_

“Many years ago,” he began. “There was a god of winter.”

“Gods don’t exist.”

“Who’s telling this story? Me or you?”

She snorted, then settled back into her bunk.

“This god ruled over all things cold and cruel; so he had a heart of ice, and hadn’t known love in a very long time. But he still craved what he didn’t have, and so went to the god of the earth for help…”

The words seemed to flow unbidden from somewhere deep in his mind; and as he talked, he could hear Marina stirring in her bunk next to them and shifting forward to hear better.

“So the earth god crafted a human; with limbs made from willow branches and hair made from ripe wheat and eyes made from forget-me-not petals and a heart made from the summer sun. Lastly, he took a piece of the human’s heart and a piece of the god’s heart and put them inside each other, so that they would be bound to each other for eternity. And when the god of winter saw that human, they both fell in love…”

He kept on talking, well aware of Marina’s and Katya’s breaths growing slower. They both fell asleep around when the god of winter sacrificed his memory to give health and strength to his beloved, but he kept talking anyway. 

“And when they met again, all those years later…”

“ _Soldat_.”

He turned.

One of his handlers stood at the door, eyes narrowed in anger. The Asset felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.

“Sir…” he stammered. He never stammered. “How long have you…”

“Long enough.” His handler started forward, and the Asset involuntarily drew back. “Where do you get off telling stories to your missions?”

“Sir, please–”

“Have you forgotten why you’re here? You are a weapon! You are their trainer!"  

"I only–”

“You are not their friend or brother, and this softness has been going on long enough!”

“Please, I was only trying to get them to sleep–”

“ _What is going on here?_ ”

The handler jumped to the side and both girls snapped awake with gasps. Blocking out the light from the doorway, Madame B stood before them with an icy glare traced across her features.

“Ma'am…” the handler stammered. “He was telling Assets 6146 and 6171 a…bedtime story. A…love story.”

“Interesting.” Her voice was like arctic wind. “And did it end tragically?" 

"No, ma'am.”

Madame B turned her piercing gaze on the Asset, and he felt like his blood was turning to lead.

“Pierce told me to avoid injuring you if possible, considering how valuable all your services are to him. However, he did  _not_  forbid me from giving you the standard treatment that your organization gives you if you’re disobedient.”

The air seemed to turn to honey.

“Oh God…” he managed to get out.

“Hardly.”

Marina and Katya couldn’t have known what the “standard treatment” was.  

That didn’t stop either of them from immediately screaming in protest.

“Both of you shut up!” Madame B snarled. Their screams died down to painful sobs. “I’ll deal with you later.  _Soldat_ , come.  _Now_.”

He got to his feet, his body unsteady. Shaking, he followed her out of the bedroom and down the hallway towards the room where he was kept.

 

* * *

 

Unlike his homes in Siberia and Washington D.C., there was no cryo chamber in the Red Room. In the chamber where he and his handlers stayed, only a metal slab, equipped with restraints, dominated the room. Unbeknownst to the casual looker, the restraints had circuits running through them; set to distribute powerful electric shocks at the press of a button. 

Seated beside the chair were several buckets of ice water and a washcloth.

“We were hoping that you would regain your senses and treat the Black Widows as what they are, considering how well you’ve been training them. We hoped that you would be as ruthless and efficient as your record has claimed.”

The Asset stumbled forward, his entire body numb.

(Subject has failed. Subject will be reprimanded. Subject has failed.)

“But for reasons we can’t understand, despite your excellent teaching, you insist upon treating them like children.”

He was unresistant as his handlers strapped him down.

“In case you haven’t realized yet,  _Soldat_.” She leaned in close as he lay there, helpless. “They haven’t been children since their parents dumped them on our doorstep. And it is not your job to be kind and loving. Your job, your mission, is make the strongest into killers and let the weakest die. You seem to have forgotten that.”

His limbs trembled as one of his handlers laid the washcloth almost delicately over his face. 

“So I’m sure your master will understand that you have to be punished.”

With a rush and a roar, water slopped from the bucket and dumped over his face. 

It was like liquid ice; the water pouring down his nostrils and throat and across his head and he couldn’t smell, couldn’t breathe; all that there was was the water filling his lungs and he wanted to scream but couldn’t–

He was only dimly aware of his own thrashing and gagging, and of the restraints chafing against his wrists as he struggled. When he finally choked the water out of his lungs, he was still breathing against the wet washcloth; with no way to get the fresh air he needed. 

“Again.”

His shriek was cut off as more water slid down his windpipe, followed by an even longer period of gagging and choking.

“Aga–”

“ _Stop!_ ”

The whole room went silent. 

The Asset slumped against his restraints; breathing shallowly through the damp cloth and wondering who his savior was. Whoever she was, she was bound to get punished too just for speaking out.

“You?” For the first time since he’d met her, Madame B sounded astonished. “What are you–”

Then she regained herself.

“Asset 6013, either you have an  _excellent_  reason for being here instead of in bed where you belong; or you’ll end up in the same position as your teacher.”

6013?

“I do, Madame.” Despite the threat of torture, she sounded as calm and sure of herself as she always did. “As sure as I’m standing here, I can promise you that the Winter Soldier was only doing his job and does not deserve to be punished.”

“And why not?" 

The Asset lay there, baffled. How could she not think that he didn’t deserve punishment? He’d disobeyed orders; they both knew that–

"Madame, since you told him of my skills, he’s been privately conferring with me. And he told me about his reasons for acting the way he did: he’s been testing the Black Widows, not operating out of some misguided position of weakness or love. He wanted to know how they would react to someone showing them affection; whether they would accept it or reject it the way they’ve been taught. He planned to keep doing it for his entire stay, and each asset’s reaction to his treatment of them was supposed to go towards his final judgement of their abilities.”

Silence fell across the room again. 

The Asset was privately grateful that the washcloth was covering his face; otherwise everyone would be able to see the naked shock on his face. He wasn’t shocked that she was lying; he was shocked that she was lying for  _him_.

Why would she do that?

“He didn’t share this with us,” one of the handlers growled. 

“Does he tell you  _everything?_ ” 6013 challenged. “Does he tell you  _every_  strategy he plans for  _every_  mission? If not, then your point is moot.”

His handlers didn’t respond to that. 

“Madame.” She changed her tone back to respectful. “Please. He has been a great teacher, and more useful for determining the strongest of us than we guessed. Look how quickly our duels end now. Look how our skills have sharpened. Please, don’t punish our trainer over a misunderstanding.”

There was another silence; one that seemed to stretch on for eternities. 

“Let him up.”

The restraints clacked open; and the Asset wasted no time in clawing the washcloth off his face and taking a long, loud gulp of air.

6013’s head bowed.

“Thank you.”

“If I find out you’re lying to me…” The threat hung in the air.

“I’m telling the truth; I swear.”

Madame B gave only her dry, cold laugh.

“I taught you to lie myself; your word means as much to me as a Russian man’s promise to stop drinking. But he is the best trainer we’ve had; so I’ll give both of you this chance. One chance. Do not waste it.”

She bowed her head lower.

“Thank you, Madame.”

“Now.  _Soldat_ –” His head snapped in her direction, “–take her back to bed.”

Obediently, he rose from the chair and walked stiffly over to 6013. His lungs still ached. Her face was carefully blank.

Together, they moved out of the room and down the hallway.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t speak until he was sure they were out of earshot.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

He wasn’t fooled.

“Why did you lie for me?”

She didn’t speak; only kept walking, her gaze trained on the carpeted floor.

“Please, 6013. No more games, just tell me–”

“Natalia.”

He stared at her.

“…What?”

She stopped in the middle of the hallway, then looked him dead in the eye.

“My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. My birthday is on November 22. My parents willingly gave me to the Red Room when I was four because they were told I’d be serving my country. Since I grew up here, I have only one skill set: killing and emotional manipulation.” She paused. “And that’s all I know for sure. I don’t…I don’t know anything about the other girls or how they survive in this place.”

It was startlingly honest, especially coming from her. 

Unfortunately, when she was done, all he could do was stare.

“Do you have a name?” she prompted.

“…No,” he finally admitted. “Or if I do…I can’t remember it. I don’t know anything about who I am or where I came from.”

A flicker of something flitted through her eyes. It might have been sympathy.

“I know how much you care about the other girls,” she finally said. “But…you know I can’t. Then again, you seem like a better person than me.”

He smiled hollowly.

“That’s not true. But if you girls can at least like me despite that, then I’ll be fine.”

She – Natalia – gave him one of her long looks; like she was reassessing her judgement of him. 

“At least let me give you a name,” she finally said. “I know we’re all sick of referring to you as  _Soldat_.”

He blinked several times; taken aback.

“I haven’t had a name in…however long…I don’t even know.”

“That’s why you need one.” Natalia paused for a few moments, her expression pensive. “Nikolai?”

“No.”

“Boris?”

“No.”

“Peter?”

“No.”

“Dmitri? Vladimir? Alexei?”

“No, no, and  _definitely_  no.”

A tiny smirk crossed her lips.

“I may just start calling you Alexei for that.”

“Don’t you  _dare_.”

She laughed – do that more often – and continued suggesting names.

“Anton? Sergei? Mikhail? Yasha–”

“Yes.”

Something familiar about that name – it wasn’t perfect, sort of like something he’d only let himself be called once or twice in another life – but it was familiar enough, and far better than being nameless. 

Natalia looked at him.

“You want to be called  _James?_ ”

“Yes, yes I do.”

She nodded a few more times, another tiny smile drifting across her lips.

“Alright…Yasha.”

She spoke his name with a kind of tentativeness he’d never heard from her.

“Natalia.”

“Yasha…we just arrived at my bedroom, so you can stop looking so moony-eyed.”

He snapped back to the real world. In fact, they had just arrived at her bedroom, and she appeared to be hiding a laugh.

“I don’t look moony-eyed,” he grumbled. 

“Keep telling yourself that.” Her eyes sparked with mirth. “Well,  _dobroy nochi;_  Yasha.”

With a flick of red hair, she disappeared behind the door.

He whispered into empty air:

“ _Dobroy nochi,_  Natalia.”

He went back to his handlers with a lightness in his step that had never been there before.

 

* * *

 

“So Marina, let me tell you about appropriate kill tactics for someone of your stature.”

The small girl looked back at him as best she could with bunches of her hair in his hands.

“Didn’t you already teach me those?”

“Those were more generic, suited for a typical child. You, on the other hand, have more of your strength centered in your lower body. So, when you’re throwing someone over your shoulder, you start by…”

He kept talking as he wove blond curls into a tight fishtail braid. All the other girls sat around them in a circle, listening enthralled. Even Natalia was there, seated next to Olga; sharpening one of her throwing knives.

“So when can I try it out?” Marina asked eagerly as he tied the braid off with a small piece of string.

“You can do it on Katya when I’m done with her hair. Katya, come here." 

Marina shot to her feet, then quickly took her place in the circle next to Irina. The gray-eyed preteen had already had her turn; with spare ballet ribbons woven into her frizzy black locks. 

Katya, for her part, wanted a more typically Ukrainian crown plait. 

As he gathered the bunches of hair, he started on new tactics.

"Now, if your strength is more gathered in your legs, you can actually choke your opponent – or even break their neck – with your thighs. This is especially useful for marks you’ve already seduced.”

The older girls sat up straighter in their places. Natalia looked up from her knife and shot him an intrigued look.

 _Please don’t ever break my neck. Wait, where the hell did_ that _come from?_

“Olga, Tatiana, you two can start by demonstrating on each other later.”

Both girls rolled their eyes and smirked at each other.

“Anyway. First, you would need to somehow get up onto their shoulders. Which obviously means that the most important thing about killing someone this way is to be creative and have fun…”

The crown plait was done before he finished talking. Katya leapt to her feet and shot him a grateful grin before Marina tackled her.

“Hey, hey; no killing each other outside the duels, girls. Sofie, you were next, weren’t you? And now, about actually  _breaking_  your opponent’s neck…”

 

* * *

 

Irina’s face was scrunched up in concentration as she tied the bandana over her eyes. He handed her a small handgun, and she silently loaded a clip into it.  

“The target’s set up. You ready?”

She nodded. 

Then in a blink, she fired off three rounds. 

Three holes appeared dead center of the target. 

She frantically ripped off her bandana, peering forward.

“Did I get it?”

“You got it!”

Her mouth fell open, then she started grinning.

Warmth bloomed in his chest.

“I got it! I finally got it! I mean, of course I did.”

He laughed. 

“Of course you did.”

Irina’s triumphant smirk suddenly disappeared, and she peered up at him, uncharacteristically chewing her lip. It struck him as a very typical twelve-year-old’s expression.

“Hey, uh…I wanted to say that I’m sorry for kicking you in the shin.”

“For kicking me in the – Irina, that was months ago.”

“Yeah, and you were being a giant  _mudok_  too. But uh…I wanted to say it anyway. Cause you helped me get better, and if you hadn’t, I’d have been killed by one of the others by now. So…sorry, I guess.”

Under different circumstances, he’d be touched by her apology and probably forgive her out loud. But she looked so awkward, he decided to take pity on her instead.

“You killed by one of the others? That  _would_  be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?”

Her customary proud glower returned. 

“Shut up,  _mudok_.”

He bit back a smile.

“Alright, I will. But in return, let’s see you repeat that shot.”

“Easy.”

She tied the bandana around her eyes, and took aim again.

Two gunshots.

Two holes right through the target’s heart.

This time, he couldn’t resist grinning with pride.

 

* * *

 

Tatiana was tied to a chair again. She and Olga had been taking turns escaping their bonds for the last hour; and with each turn, he’d been timing how long it took each girl to get out of the ropes. Olga was currently holding the record with a total of fifteen seconds. Tatiana was determined to break it.

“And…go!”

Still tied to the chair, Tatiana leaned forwards onto her feet, then braced herself like she was about to jump.

“What’s she–”

Olga hadn’t even finished her sentence before the other girl executed a perfect backflip, bonds and all, before landing backwards on the chair and reducing it to splinters. The broken pieces of the chair sliced easily through the ropes, and Tatiana leapt upwards and landed neatly on her toes. 

“Time!”

Tatiana lifted her chin in pride and smirked at Olga, whose mouth had fallen open and cheeks reddened.

“What’s my time?”

He checked the stopwatch. 

“Six point twelve seconds. And that was…unexpected, but ingenious. Where did you get the idea?”

Tatiana waved her hand.

“6013. She flips around all the time when she’s dueling, so I thought…why not use her methods to show up Olga?”

“Shut up,” Olga grumbled, but she looked very much like she was resisting a smile.

“Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. I couldn’t possibly be jealous of someone who looked like a falling pill bug.”

Tatiana socked her compatriot in the arm with a thwack, which elicited nothing more than an eye roll from Olga. 

“Alright, that’s enough of that, you two.”

Both of them raised their eyebrows in unison.

“You want something to do…you know what, lesson’s over. Sweep up what’s left of that chair and you can go.”

Looking pleased, Olga ran to go get the broom; Tatiana following close behind.  

He pulled out his shotgun and began checking the pump action as the girls came back; talking with each other as they cleaned up. He let their banter and threats wash over him like cool water as he worked on his weapons; enjoying the few minutes of relative peace.

 

* * *

 

He had learned all the ballet stances by now, and theoretically knew how to perform them. Actually dancing, however, was still out of his reach.

“Your problem is that you still can’t relax,” Natalia informed him. “You move like a soldier, not a dancer. You have to let your body loosen up; you’re not going to have to follow orders here.”

“It’s hard to remember that,” he admitted, dropping out of an arabesque. “Even after I’ve been here for what…two years?”

“Two years,” she confirmed. “And I know. I have the same problems. But look, watch me.”

Clad in her black leotard, with her red hair pinned up in a bun, she began the Swan Lake sequence again. She was so elegant, he could almost believe that she really was Odile, the Black Swan; and not an enigmatic young assassin.

“Come on Prince Siegfried, it’s your turn.”

“I’m not a prince–”

She took his hands and guided him into the sequence with her. 

“Come on, dance with me. I graduate in a few months; you don’t have much more time.”

Reluctantly, he kept dancing with her; well aware that while Natalia was a perfect swan, he was about as graceful as a rusty-jointed robot. 

“I told you, relax. I’m not going to bite…in this particular session, anyway.”

“Ha ha. I thought ballet was all about routine and order, anyway.”

She froze in place.

“So  _that’s_  why you keep getting it wrong. No, that’s only one aspect of it. The rest is…interpretation of the routine. It’s…really the only part of this place that’s up for interpretation. The exercise keeps us strong and limber; the rest is supposed to test whether we can adapt or not within our patrons’ limits and rules.”

“My orders have always been literal.”

“I know, Yasha.” She moved up and down on her toes a few times, almost pensive. “Well, if I do nothing else in the next few months; I might as well make sure the last two years pay off and teach you to at least dance one sequence.”

“Or…” He paused. “We could go down to the shooting range and see who can make the most bullseyes in two minutes.”

She stared at him for a few seconds…and then began to laugh. Despite his embarrassment, that warm feeling –  _familiar now_  – began to seep through his body again.

“You’re hopeless, Yasha. Absolutely hopeless.”

“I’m probably never going to be able to dance. Or improvise. Or anything like that ever again.”

“Maybe not.” She patted him on the shoulder. “But you can at least come second to me in shooting games.”

“Second my ass.”

He felt an odd urge to take her hand as they darted down to the shooting range. He brushed it off; there was no way he could do a thing like that with so many security cameras out in the hallways.

 

* * *

 

He’d managed to excuse himself from watching the duel again, under the pretense of getting maintenance on his arm.

The handler who’d been stuck with doing the maintenance was scowling irritably over the plates and wires, occasionally poking a screwdriver into the depths of metal.

Meanwhile the Asset–

 _Yasha, Yasha, my name is_ James–

–was lost in worry about the duel. There had been twenty-eight girls originally, according to Madame B. When he’d arrived two years ago, there had been fifteen. Now, there were eight…soon to be seven. 

Olga, Tatiana, Katya, Nadya, Irina, Sofie, Marina, Natalia…the eight strongest, his favorites. But although every single one of them had proven themselves over again in training and on missions, they would still be carved down until Madame B was certain that only the strongest were left. Even if that meant only one. 

“Can’t believe I got stuck on maintenance again. Fucking stupid, is what it is…Yuri hasn’t had a turn in god knows how long…hey, Asset, what the hell’s wrong with you? Why do you keep pussying out of watching the duels? There are more of 'em these days, more girls getting killed, should be right up your alley. Remember the governor’s daughter in Chicago? Remember the triplets in Seoul? Remember the little one in Athens? She sure cried a shit-ton…”

He closed his eyes and tried not to listen. 

_Of course I remember them all, of course I do, stop talking stop talking stop talking–_

“…god only knows why you don’t have the balls to watch it now.” He snorted, and went back to prodding the wires. “Glad you’re at least getting the fucking mission done, at least…back when we first started, I thought Pierce would punish us all 'cause you couldn’t control a bunch of little girls.”

A few sparks flew, and the plates closed. 

“Well, that’s done. Now I can go see who’ll win the duel. Maybe it’ll be 6013 again…I like her. In some other life, I’d like to see if she’s as cold as Madame B claims she is.”

(Subject is reminded that subject cannot forcibly punch his handler in the ribs–)

“Hey, Ivan!”

“Yuri? Jesus, you’re back already?”

“Yeah. It’s already over. The teenager with the silvery blond hair and big blue eyes got the black-eyed brunette teenager. You’ll never believe this, but I thought she was gonna cry right before she nailed her.”

_Olga and Tatiana…Tatiana’s dead…Olga killed her best friend…_

His hands began to shake; deep breaths heaving their way out of his mouth.  

Neither of his handlers seemed to notice.

“About to cry? Yuri, you were seein’ shit again.”

“Eh, maybe. Jesus, only seven left…wonder which one’s next? Wonder how many of her own assets Madame B’s gonna kill?”

He let out a soft noise, almost pained.

“Hey, you still here, Asset? Let him out.”

The restraints clicked back, and he streaked out of that room faster than he ever had.

 

* * *

 

Olga and Natalia were in their bedroom, like he’d thought. Natalia was already stretched out on her bunk, wrists cuffed to the posts and seemingly asleep. 

Olga wasn’t even bothering to pretend; seated on the edge of her bunk, her eyes red with tears.

“She died quickly,” Olga murmured. “I…made sure it was quick and painless. Just ran up and snapped her neck before she could do anything. Madame B would’ve made it worse if I’d refused. I had to do what I was told.”

He walked over and sat on the edge of the bunk with her.

“I know you did.”

She quickly wiped at her eyes, then sniffed loudly. 

“No matter. It was stupid of me to get attached anyway. Living in this place, you think I’d have known better. I’ll do better next time; I will.”

He felt the odd urge to tell her otherwise; that getting attached was not weakness…but that was ridiculous and unrealistic. Getting attached was dangerous for any of them.

He suddenly became very aware of Natalia’s presence.

“Will you help me get better?” Olga begged. “Please. I can’t fail again.”

Gleaming metal fingers gently wrapped around her own. Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

“I will help you. I won’t let you die, Olga.”

“I may have already sentenced myself to die,” she murmured. “But…at least I can make up for it before I do. Thank you.”

He couldn’t say anything else. 

He just held the teenager’s hand while she took deep breaths, trying to will away the last of her tears. Some time later, he grew aware of the fact that her breathing had slowed and her grip slacked; so he tucked her into bed and cuffed her to the posts, careful not to wake her up.

“ _Dobroy nochi._ " 

Then he slipped out of the bedroom, his chest oddly tight and eyes stinging.

 

* * *

 

Olga was sent off on a practice mission the very next day along with Nadya and Sofie. For once, the ballet studio seemed almost empty.

The girls’ movements were as flawless as always, but they all seemed preoccupied. Marina chewed her lip until it bled; Katya played with her hair until it looked like the strands would break; Irina kept scowling and scuffing her shoes against the floor; and Natalia kept glancing away from him, her eyes a million miles away.

Of course they would be worried. After Tatiana’s death, the possibility of their failure had become far more tangible.

"Alright, lesson over.”

They stared at him.

“Already?” Katya asked. “It’s only been half an hour.”

“You don’t need to practice any more. I think you’ve got the routine down perfectly.”

“You’re a crap liar,” Irina muttered, but she bent down to unlace her slippers anyway. 

“Marina, Katya, Irina…the three of you head down to the interrogation room and practice on each other. Na – I mean, 6013 – you stay up here with me.”

The three younger girls yanked off their slippers and filed out of the studio. Natalia braced her hands on the barre and trained her green gaze on him.

“Is this about Tatiana?” she asked. “She and I were hardly close, you know.”

He was taken aback by her bluntness.

“It’s not about that. Well, it sort of is. I was thinking about what you said a couple weeks ago, that you only have a few months until you graduate…”

_If she doesn’t die._

_She won’t die. She’s the best of them all._

“…and I…I worry that your performance will be affected if it looks like we’re close. I mean, even though you lied for me. They’ll be even angrier about that if they find out.”

Natalia stared at him for what felt like hours. 

“That’s a fair point,” she finally conceded.

“Alright.” He took a deep breath. “So I’ll see you less often, then–”

He was cut off by the shock of lips on his.

Natalia’s strong hands twisting in his unkempt hair were rough and calloused from weapons training. Her lips tasted like bitter coffee and the bland supplements that the girls were fed on. 

He never wanted her to stop.

But when she pulled away, all he could say was:

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I only have a few months,” she replied. “They won’t kill me. I’m their best. Besides, if I’m good enough to lie to Madame B once, I can do it again.”

From any of the others, that would’ve sounded either naive or arrogant.

But she spoke with such conviction that he had to believe her.

Blinded by her words, he bent down and kissed her again, twisting his fingers in her curls. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling them closer.

“Do you want to stop where we are?” he breathed between kisses. “Nothing more has to happen–”

“No. I don’t want to stop.”

“Your room–”

“–is only me for the next two days.”

“If you really want to–”

“–I do.”

Still not quite believing this was happening, he untangled himself from her and assumed a picture of professionalism as the two walked out of the studio.

Halfway down the hallway, she turned and gave him one of her smirks.

Instead of eliciting a scowl like it usually did, his blood rushed hot down through his body, and –  _oh_.

Well,  _that_  was new. Or maybe just something he hadn’t remembered until now.

Natalia laughed, and their pace towards her bedroom quickened, his pulse hot and eager.

The second they were behind the door, they were on each others’ lips again, hands moving everywhere. She pulled him forward to her bunk, shoving him down and clambering on top.

“You know what you’re doing?”

“Of course. I’ve done this for missions; and in earlier training, before you came, there were some men I had to practice on.”

“Seems like it’s paying off…. _mmmm_  –  _oh_ –”

“One question before we do this.”

“Natalia?”

“Was I your first kiss since you became the Winter Soldier?”

“…that bad, huh?”

“There’s always room for improvement.”

“Great.”

Natalia laughed, then reached for the clasp on his uniform.

“Don’t worry, Yasha. Just let me handle this. I know what I’m doing…”

Her eyes glimmered.

He tipped his head back and let out a guttural groan; too lost in the moment to care about any consequences.

 

* * *

 

He quickly dressed himself and slipped out of her room when they were done, leaving her curled up naked in her bunk. Green eyes glimmering, satisfied grin, red hair a tangled mess.

For his part, his muscles felt like they’d been liquified, and a sort of sleepy, happy daze had come over him. She had unusual stamina, the kind of thing he’d praised over and over again in their training sessions; which now meant that he was weaker and more tired than he could ever remember being.

It was a curiously good feeling.

“You’re in here early, Asset. It’s not like – Jesus, did you run a marathon or something? You’re sweatier than a racehorse.”

“The training session was more arduous than I planned.” His voice was hoarse. "Request early hose down.“

His handler shrugged, then put his cigarette out on the mahogany table.

"Why not.”

He stripped more slowly than usual, folding his (now rumpled) uniform before placing it on the floor. In a few well-learned steps, he moved over to the metal drain in the floor.

His handler grabbed the hose and moved in close…then paused.

“What…exactly…are those bruises on you?”

He glanced down at his naked body. Those small, circular bruises…speckled down his neck onto his chest, across his hips, one or two on his thighs…

_Oh god. Natalia left them there, didn’t she?_

“Insect bites?” he tried.

The handler frowned.

“I’ve never noticed any insects in here.”

“Must’ve been from the outdoor course.”

“Must’ve been.” There was still a note of doubt in his handler’s voice.  
He shut his eyes, tension trickling back into his limbs. He was going to have to talk to Natalia about her biting problem.

Then the battering spray of water hit him, and he forgot about his worries in the shock of cold.

 

* * *

 

After Olga returned, she didn’t stay after lessons to talk or skip ropes like usual. She went through the motions, but she was far more subdued. She refused to speak to him beyond their classes, and all but ignored the other girls.

Only three days later, she was pulled out of class and didn’t come back.

“What’s going to happen to her?”

“Part of the graduation ritual,” Marina explained. “If you last until you’re sixteen, you undergo a kind of surgery. It’s called…hey 6013, what’s the word? What they did to you?”

“Sterilization,” Natalia, who’d been quiet until then, replied.

“Yes, that. And afterwards, only that’s when they allow you to actually seduce marks during your missions. None of us want to end up accidentally having a baby. Just another attachment, you know?”

“Yes, I know.” Natalia went back to flinging knives at targets. “She’ll be fine. It’s not a big deal, honestly. The surgery only lasts a couple hours, and you’re out cold the whole time.”

Irina scrunched up her face in distaste. 

“Yeah, but I’m sure not looking forward to anyone with knives poking around where they shouldn’t.”

“Small sacrifice,” Nadya monotoned.

“I doubt it.”

A small lead weight formed in his heart. If she kept talking like that…

“Listen to her, Irina. You don’t want to be forming attachments–”

“Oh yeah?” She challenged. “First of all, that’s great coming from you. Second of all, where do you get off telling me not to be worried about getting knives stuck in me? Have you ever had people screwing around with  _your_ body without you wanting them to?”

His blood seemed to turn to ice.

(Compliance attained–)

_“Put him on ice.”_

_“Install the triggers.”_

_“Turn it up higher! More! What am I paying you for?”_

_“Just take it, will you?”_

_“Soldat?”_

_“Ready to comply.”_

In a blink, Natalia’s knife hit the floor with a clatter and her hand connected with the back of the younger girl’s head.

“ _Chert vozmi!_ What the hell was that for?”

“I agree.” He glared at her. “Don’t hit the smaller girls for no reason.”

“Hardly for no reason.” Natalia glowered at Irina, who made an obscene gesture back at her. “Don’t talk about what you don’t know.”

The next knife ripped right through the target’s heart and embedded itself in the wall.

 

* * *

 

Olga’s subdued behavior didn’t change after she came back from surgery.

Irina’s anger was constantly bubbling under the surface, ready to snap. When Nadya forgot to bring rope to one practice session, she shouted so much that she almost reduced the older girl to tears. 

For her part, Nadya was jittery, jumping at the slightest disturbance and flinching at sudden motions. Katya and Sofie were much the same. 

Marina sulked; glowering more often than usual and often kicking the walls for no reason.

As for Natalia…

“Have I mentioned that you’re a hypocrite, Yasha?”

Her smirk was brittle; her eyes seemed to flicker. From their seat on the floor of the ballet studio, her spine was just a little bit too straight to look natural.

“I don’t think that’s the first time that’s been said to me.”

“I don’t trust your memory; but that’s probably true.” She rose to her feet. “I think that I can handle the routine on my own. Do you want to meet back at my room later?”

“No, I’ll stay until you’re done.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I want to see how much you’ve improved,” he added quickly. “You don’t have many more performances until you graduate next month.”

“And you go back to your icebox. Very well; it’s not like the others have let you watch  _them_  much any more.”

As always, she was fluidity in motion; her limbs twirling in tandem and her hair spinning behind her like a wave of cherry-colored silk. The worn pink ribbons of her shoes were lashed almost cruelly tight around her ankles; while her leotard clung to her slim body like a second skin. Her face was painful in its concentration; she often danced for hours without stopping. 

He sat back and silently drank in her company.

 

* * *

 

He was tired and sore. The day had been long, and his handlers had all been short-tempered about something. When he’d asked if there was anything he could do to assist them, he got sprayed in the face with the power hose. 

His tac gear still dripping, he stomped his way down the hallway…until he reached the first bedroom. His footfall grew softer.

“'Rina? Kati? You two still awake?”

“We are now.”

He pushed open the door and headed inside.

Up in the top bunk, Marina looked seconds away from drifting off. Katya was more awake, her round brown eyes almost glowing in the dim room. 

“You two okay? Strapped down and everything?”

“We’re good,” Marina muttered.

“Yeah.” Katya was quiet for a moment. “Remember when you told that story here? The one about the winter god and the human he loved?”

He swallowed hard. 

“I remember.”

“I don’t think you finished that. How did it end?”

“Katya…” Marina grumbled.

“No, it’s fine.” He hesitated, trying to recall. “After the earth god wiped his memory in exchange for his beloved to gain strength and health, the winter god wandered the earth alone for many years. His only respite was the occasional human kindness, or the ever-present goddess of death; the only one who understood his need for companionship. But one snowy morning, he came across a tall, beautiful human in a forest clearing. At first glance, he didn’t remember his beloved. But when he looked again, he realized that he knew those forget-me-not eyes.”

Katya sighed, and settled back against her cuffs.

“Too bad you can only tell stories to dead people.”

“And those people’s killers.” He tucked the sheets up to Katya’s neck, and brushed Marina’s hair out of her drowsy face. “ _Dobroy nochi, malenkiye pauki._ ”

He started to leave.

“Hey, wait.”

He paused, and turned.

The girls were still looking at him. Marina looked oddly thoughtful, like she was about to say something important. 

“I think that…”

“Yes?”

“You…”

Her face closed off mid-sentence.

“You should bring extra guns tomorrow in case Sofie makes one explode again.”

He swallowed down his disappointment.

“Good idea. I’ll take you up on that.”

She didn’t thank him, just shifted down against her bed again and closed her eyes. Katya shot him a look that might have been sympathy, but she said nothing else either. 

He didn’t know why he expected them to say anything else.

Silent as a ghost, he pulled the door shut behind him and disappeared down the hallway to strap himself in for the long night.

 

* * *

 

Natalia’s lips were cool and soft against his, her hands skimming across his undershirt and caressing the scars that rimmed his shoulder. The hard lines of her muscles were like steel wrapped in satin. His hands stroked against her as she perched in his lap, while he peppered kisses from her jaw down to her collarbone.

Her breaths came heavy and hot as he pressed his mouth to her chest, while he let out a moan of delight–

“You’re bursting the springs, Yasha.”

Much to his mortification, he realized that the little bed was, in fact, creaking dangerously.

“Sorry, Nat.” He did his best to stop rocking forward so vigorously. 

“Much better.” She pressed herself up against him again.

His whole body was thrumming with warmth, the kind of warmth that had been denied for all those years in cryo. Natalia and her soft red hair, her strong body, those eyes that were now squeezed shut in pleasure…

He thought he might love her.

He wished he could say that out loud.

“Yasha?” she murmured, eyes flicking open. She peered down at him, movements paused for a moment. “There’s something I ought to say…”

His hand – the flesh one – slid down from her shoulder to her hip.

“Yes?”

“About you…”

Despite himself, his heart began to beat faster.

She moved closer, strands of red hair falling out of place and brushing against his lips. Her eyes locked on his.

“Yasha…” she began, “I…”

The rattling doorknob cut her off.

Then the next few moments all seemed to pass by at once.

The door burst open with a bang–

Horrified shrieks and Russian curses filled the air–

Boots stomped across the room like the hooves of stampeding beasts–

Natalia was wrenched up and away from him, her eyes wide with shock–

Something metal smacked him between the eyes–

He rolled away to escape the pain, and landed on the floor with a crack. His metal arm had caught most of the weight and had been roughly shoved up against his ribs. 

Pain shooting through his side, he rolled over, looking for Natalia where had she gone–

Then a boot connected with his bruised ribs.

Then the same metal thing struck him across the head again–

He blacked out.

 

* * *

 

James woke up strapped down to his bed; his ribs and head aching, a light in his face, and electricity buzzing on low through his cuffs.

Not for the first time.

But this time, he jolted upright, shouting, unconcerned with the pain he was about to get.

“Where are – where’s Natalia? Where are the others? If you’ve hurt them, I’ll–”

“Do what? Stutter at us?”

A bolt of electricity blazed up into his body. He fell back, gasping.

His handlers lurked in the corner of his vision while Madame B moved forward into the light. She was wearing a look – not of anger, nor of disappointment – of deep disgust. It was rather like she was a mechanic examining a rusty old antique that leaked fuel or kept breaking off parts of itself and the owners still refused to throw it away. 

While she glowered at him, one of the handlers began to speak to seemingly nobody.

“Mission report: Winter Soldier and the Black Widows. He is malfunctioning again. Breaking down. Not unlike what happened in on July 4, 1958 and December 31, 1991. But this time, it’s even worse; because now he’s trying to pass off his disobedience as a part of his mission.”

_What?_

_What was July 4, 1958 and December 31, 1991? What did I do? What prompted it?_

“From what we have gleaned from security footage–" 

_Of course that’s how they found out. They must’ve had cameras I didn’t know about in the rooms…how could I have been so stupid as to think they’d leave us alone?_

”–the Asset seems to have grown sentimental attachment to the Black Widows; particularly number 6013, who was set to graduate next week. This is obviously not appropriate behavior.“

"Appropriate, my ass,” James growled. 

More electricity. A stream of curses in five languages left his lips.

“Permission to withdraw requested. The Asset must be returned to Siberia until he can be successfully reprogrammed. Please send copy to Madame B.” There was a small purring noise from a device on the man’s wrist. “Send to Alexander Pierce. Hail Hydra.”

The device let out a satisfied beep.

James’ blood ran cold. 

His Master was far crueler than any of his handlers…whatever they did to him now would be child’s play compared to what he got when he returned to America.

That didn’t stop him from shouting in outrage and pulling against his restraints.

“You can’t send me away! I’m the only good thing that’s ever happened to these girls! I have to stay, let me st–”

The familiar crack of metal against his forehead. He looked forward, his vision fuzzy, and realized that one of the other men was holding a long fireplace poker in his hand.

The thought had barely finished crossing his mind when the next bolt of electricity wrapped its way through his body. His muddled brain barely recognized Madame B’s cold voice ringing through the air.

“Your opinion doesn’t matter! What you want or need, what these girls want or need, none of it has ever mattered!  _How_  you got foolish enough to think otherwise is beyond me! I  _told_  Pierce he should’ve given me the trigger words to use on you…” Her gaze leveled with James’ again. “But that doesn’t matter. Within the day, your organization be bringing you back to Siberia to be reprogrammed. And perhaps, if Pierce is in a particularly foul mood, back to America after that. By then, you won’t remember a thing about these girls; not even their names or faces. Even if one ran up and punched you you wouldn’t recognize her. You will never be able to divert from your mission ever again.”

James slumped back against his bed. Despair like lead seeped into his veins.

“What about them? What will happen to them?”

The older woman smiled. It was ghastly, no more than skin being pulled taut across a skull.

“Don’t worry. They will be sufficiently punished.  _Especially_  6013. Despite her – now wasted – potential, that girl will be mind-wiped and then  _expelled_  from the Red Room. She will be on her own with none of the references or credentials she would’ve had upon graduating, and no place in the world. A second-rate assassin, the disgraced attack dog of lowlife thugs, most likely facedown in a ditch before the year’s out. And that’s all she’ll ever amount to, thanks to you.”

James screamed in outrage and heartbreak. Screams of pain, indistinguishable from the ones that filled the cell a second later when the electricity was turned back on.

“As for the others…they were all too weak, apparently. Once their punishments are over, they’ll most likely be dead before the week is out.”

His screams turned to sobs halfway through a breath.

“You failed your mission,  _Soldat_.”

“Go to hell.”

He braced himself for the pain. His breaths heaved out in rasps for several long moments, but no shocks or blows came. 

“Clearly you’ve been without cryofreeze or mind wipes too long. Luckily, that’ll be remedied soon.”

The handlers slipped forward; their faces far stonier than usual. One of them held a long hypodermic needle.

James leveled his furious gaze at them, wishing to God that he could get out of those restraints, fight them back, save the girls–

“A shame you sabotaged your mission, Soldat. You could’ve been quite the _asset_ to the Black Widows. Instead, you failed them all.”

A sharp point of pain pricked his right shoulder.

He collapsed back into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

He lay there for hours, halfway between dreaming and wakefulness. Strange, unfamiliar faces drifted through his vision alongside his handlers: a trio of young brunette girls; a middle-aged, dark-haired man and woman; a different woman about the same age with blond hair and crinkled blue eyes; five men of various ages and ethnicities in old American military garb; a brunette woman with lips painted bright red; and a blond, blue-eyed man who made James’ heart ache every time he saw him. 

The drugs not only kept him from lucidity, they also kept him paralyzed. He couldn’t so much as twitch against his restraints; barely able to blink or swallow. His handlers’ footsteps against the wooden floor seemed to reverberate through his ears.

_Get me out of these cuffs, get me free, I want to get out…_

But what would he do, even if he got out? Apparently, he’d been unsuccessful in escaping not once, but twice. He was vastly outnumbered by people who knew exactly how to subdue him. Even if he managed to escape his handlers, he knew that Madame B would have some nasty surprises for him once he did.

_But it doesn’t matter how much they hurt me. I’m used to pain. The girls; I need to protect the girls…_

He took a quick, shuddering breath; which was as much as the paralysis would allow; then focused all his efforts on trying to move.

His finger twitched. 

Pitiful.

James let out a small sigh that sounded more like a wheeze. His head lolled up for a brief second, then collapsed against the metal with a soft clunk.

“Behave,  _Soldat_.” He couldn’t even tell which of his handlers was speaking to him. The man sounded like he was talking underwater. “We don’t want to have to hurt you again.”

There was a faint buzzing noise that sounded suspiciously like a cattle prod.

No getting out then. No escaping. He was off to Siberia within a few hours, about to be mind-wiped, tortured, and put back in cryo before being sent off to kill whoever was on Hydra’s shit list that day. 

Another prick on his right shoulder.

James’ last thought before he went under again was that he wished he could’ve at least said goodbye.

 

* * *

 

“Yasha. Yasha, wake up.”

Through his haze of drugs, he could see Natalia’s face swimming in front of him. She seemed to flicker in and out of focus, so he couldn’t tell whether she was another hallucination or not.

“I don’t intend to be killed today, or anytime soon actually, so I can’t stay after your handlers come back.”

She leaned forward. Her day-to-day ponytail had been taken out, and cherry-silk curls twisted around her shoulders instead. 

“I overheard what they plan to do to us all. I know you worry about us, and I know you’re afraid none of us will make it out alive. To tell the truth, it’s certain that we’ll be tortured, and very likely that we’ll die. But…” Her eyes were as luminescent as a tigress’s. “…the last Black Widows are the Red Room’s Frankenstein’s monster. They can’t destroy what they created so easily. So I like to think that I’ll survive, and see you one day on the other side of a killing spree.” She chuckled drily. “It’s what we both know, after all. You might even recognize me. I hope you do.”

She leaned forward and brushed a feather-light kiss against his still lips. It was far gentler than most of her kisses, full of almost uncharacteristic hope and promise. 

“I love you, Yasha.  _Dosvidanya_. Don’t kill too many Americans without me.”

If he could’ve, he would’ve said something back.

But the medicine was taking hold again.

As the tendrils of black, drug-induced sleep wrapped around him again; he kept gazing at Natalia for as long as possible. Before he was lost to Hydra again, he made sure that the last thing that he saw was her face.

His sleep was almost peaceful for a little while.

 

* * *

 

The Asset remained unconscious for the rest of the journey to Siberia. As soon as they arrived, his memory was wiped once again. His screams of pain had become quite routine in that dank, cold cell.

It was a pale, compliant ghost that they strapped to a table in Washington D.C. and drew cry upon cry out of; not remembering what he did wrong. It was the same ghost that was led back to his cryo chamber and locked inside without complaint. 

The ice settled over the Asset’s body quickly. His eyes were still open, gazing dully out through the frosted yellow glass. 

As his heart rate slowed, his handlers breathed sighs of relief. Karpov brought out a bottle of vodka to celebrate. 

“To the Asset, for bringing an end to that ridiculous mission.” Applause. “To those sweet little girls, may they rest in pieces.” Derisive laughter. “And to Pierce, for dealing with that bullshit the way he only can. Hail Hydra!”

The cheer was repeated as they passed around cracked glasses of vodka, laughing and slapping each other on the back. The mission was over. The Asset was locked back in his cell where he belonged, like a gun in a holster. 

Everything seemed good.

While they celebrated, their Asset dreamed. Deep in his ice-induced sleep, the man who had no idea who he was dreamed of unfamiliar faces, a line of tiny ballerinas with blood on their hands, and a redheaded girl whose lips burned like flame.  

Someday soon, he would wake up again.

 

–Fin–

**Author's Note:**

> Soldat – Soldier
> 
> Zhemniy Soldat – Winter Soldier
> 
> Zalupa – Dickhead
> 
> Spaciba – Thank you
> 
> Sosat khuy – Suck a dick
> 
> Nachat – Begin
> 
> Dosvidanya – Goodbye
> 
> Dobroy nochi – Good night
> 
> Mudok – Asshole
> 
> Chert vozmi – Fucking hell
> 
> Malenkiye pauki – Little spiders


End file.
